Veil of Lies cg-1

by Jeri Westerson

  Crispin lunged for the kitchen curtain and grabbed the innkeeper by the long tail of his hood. “Leaving?” he growled and drew him into a corner of the warm kitchen. Crispin pulled him close till he almost cradled the man against him.

  The innkeeper turned a bruised face to Crispin. “Now good Master, you’ve done me ill. See what he’s done!”

  “Give me the key.”

  He shook his head furiously. “He’ll kill me! He said so.”

  “How much gold did they give you to look the other way as they dragged me bound and bleeding into the night?”

  “But—” the tavernkeeper sputtered.

  Crispin’s fist silenced the man. When he crumpled to the floor, Crispin farmed the key ring from his belt. He offered a warning sneer to the petrified kitchen servants and made for the stairs. When he reached the landing, he used the key and flung wide the door. Mahmoud sat hunched over his plate of roasted meat and pickled cucumbers. When he saw Crispin, he tossed the entire table aside.

  “You!” Mahmoud reached for the curved dagger at his belt, but he was far too slow. Crispin threw a sloppy punch. Instead of a smooth uppercut, it was a ragged sideways swipe, but it did the trick as neatly as a clear shot. His knuckles connected with the jaw, slamming the teeth together. Blood spurted between Mahmoud’s suddenly flaccid lips. A fan of red sprayed across his chest. He staggered backward, giving Crispin the opportunity to drop his fist in Mahmoud’s belly. Mahmoud bent double and struggled for breath and footing. Crispin closed and locked the door. No more interruptions.

  He returned to Mahmoud, watched him gasp for a moment bent as he was, and with a smile of satisfaction, reared back and kicked him in the face with the heel of his boot.

  Mahmoud fell to the floor unconscious. A patch of blood and spittle pooled under his cheek.

  Crispin rubbed his hand and unsheathed Mahmoud’s dagger. He examined its curved blade and admired its sharpness before tossing it into the fire.

  Crispin righted the table and looked for a wine jug but remembered that Saracens were disposed against spirits. “Uncivilized,” he muttered and picked up the chair and sat. He watched Mahmoud’s immobile form gurgle. Each breath made red, bloody bubbles at his nostrils.

  The sunlight in the room soon changed. Crispin decided he could wait no longer. He took a nearby jug of water and poured it on the man’s head.

  Mahmoud sputtered and blinked. He scrambled to a sitting position and glared at Crispin. He ran his hand over his face, wincing at the newly formed bruises. “You are most difficult to kill,” he sneered.

  “So I’ve been told.” Crispin crouched close before him and Mahmoud darted a glance down for his own blade, but Crispin nodded toward the fire. Mahmoud looked, gasped, and turned a burning countenance to Crispin.

  “There’ll be no games this time,” said Crispin. “Why did you and your men try to kill me?”

  Mahmoud repositioned himself as if he were used to sitting on the floor. He looked at his unbound wrists.

  “No, I didn’t bind you, though perhaps I should have done. I also did not call the sheriff. I thought to discuss this man to man.” He smiled grimly. “I still may bind you or call the sheriff. It all depends on you.”

  Mahmoud ran the back of his hand under his chin and wiped away the blood. He chuckled. “I like men who are hard to kill. It is more satisfactory when the task is finally done.”

  Crispin stood, smiled at Mahmoud, even chuckled along with him, and kicked him in the face again.

  The Saracen fell back, his smile gone. Groggily, he righted himself. His dark eyes, crinkled to mere slashes, followed Crispin’s every move.

  Crispin sat again. His smile never faded from his face. “You are in no position to talk of killing. Shall we get on with it?”

  Mahmoud’s expression turned dour. His cheek swelled from Crispin’s boot. He shrugged. “Why not?” He glanced at the other chair by the hearth. “May I rise?”

  Crispin’s crooked smile remained. “No.”

  The Saracen touched his bleeding forehead with a trembling hand. Crispin knew it was not from fear. “I am a member of a…how shall I call it? A syndicate.”

  “Of Saracens?”

  “No. Italians. Their interests are my interests.”

  “Why is that?”

  He smiled. There was blood on his teeth. “Because they pay me.”

  “What is this syndicate?”

  Mahmoud rolled his tongue in his mouth and spat out a tooth. “Merchants. Men with a great deal to gain by combining forces.”

  “A guild, you mean?”

  “No, not a guild. Something far more powerful. Guilds do not have as members—” He stopped himself. He pointed a scolding uncle’s finger at Crispin with a laugh. “I mustn’t tell, must I? Too much loose information could make my employers very unhappy. And that could be lethal.”

  “Very well. The members of this syndicate are secret and powerful. I assume their activities are far from legal.”

  “They operate somewhat outside the law and also within it. They fix prices for goods, create demand, strangle the supply to raise prices. Even piracy.”

  Crispin nodded. “I see. Criminals operating a cartel.”

  “Criminals? Oh no. Men such as these are never called criminals. They are called sir.”

  “Even a lord can be a criminal,” he said, examining his nails. “I used to be both.” His smile broadened, but it wasn’t pleasant. He leaned toward Mahmoud. “Why are they operating in England? Should I not go to court with this information, these aliens working their wiles on English soil?”

  “Do what you wish. The authorities will never find them. Or me. We are like smoke. Dispersed with a whisper.”

  Crispin eyed the door. “Smoke, eh? Even smoke has a source that can be located.”

  “But only once the fire is long gone.”

  Crispin considered. This cartel sounded like an ambitious enterprise. Mahmoud hinted at the high status of its masters. If they were Italians then this implicated dukes and princes. The Italians were famed for such treachery among their courtiers. This was a great deal more to worry over than he thought.

  He studied Mahmoud’s bruised and swelling face. This was the face he saw mauling Philippa in this room. “What has any of this to do with Philippa Walcote?”

  Mahmoud sat back and made a noise of disgust in the back of his throat. “This again? Let us just say…it was a bonus.”

  Crispin rose.

  Mahmoud raised his hand in defense. “If you kick me again, I fear I shall have no more teeth left to tell you what you wish to know.”

  Crispin deliberated and took his time. Was Mahmoud’s information more important than Crispin’s desire to batter him to death? In the end, he decided he’d at least listen first. There would always be more time later for violence.

  He sat and pulled the chair closer and rested a taut fist against his thigh. “I’m all ears.”

  Mahmoud licked his lips before spitting another tooth into his hand. He looked at it, sneered at Crispin, and threw it over his shoulder. “It is best you do not know too much. What these men did to you—what they tried to do to you—is nothing compared to what they might attempt this time.”

  “Are you trying to warn me off?”

  “It is for your own good. You are obviously a very clever man. You must know that staying alive is the best trick of all.”

  “What makes you believe you can frighten me?”

  “Frighten?” He shrugged. “Very well. What is your price, then?”

  “There is something called honor, you bastard. I do not have a price.”

  “I understand your price is sixpence a day.”

  Crispin’s grin returned. “That is my fee. As for my price, there is none high enough.”

  “So I am told.”

  “So you know me.”

  “I know of you. And so I tell you truly, man to man, you must not pursue this.”

  Crispin rose but only to pace. Mahmoud kept a
nervous eye on him.

  Crispin glanced at the light from under the door and saw no shadows of men lying in wait. Neither did he see anything at the shattered window. “Pursue what?”

  Mahmoud’s frog’s mouth slid open, the widely spaced teeth now wider. “I will give you nothing more.”

  Crispin looked down at the blood on his boots. “My foot is not in the least tired.”

  “Do with me what you will. I am trained to withstand it.”

  Crispin appraised the man, certain he was telling the truth. “A pagan bedding a Christian woman. Give me a reason why I should not kill you now.”

  “If I die, so does the woman.”

  A chill vibrated down Crispin’s spine and radiated to the back of his knees. Now more than ever he wanted to kill him. He did everything he could to control that urge, including putting the chair and table between them.

  “So you see,” continued Mahmoud, “there is nothing more to discuss. My associates will be surprised to hear of your recovery, but I will tell them, if you make no more provocative moves, to let you be. Should it appear that you are uncooperative, then your resurrection will be short-lived.”

  “You, threatening me? You, who have my boot marks upon your face?”

  “It is a small price to pay. And my associates are many. My employers have long arms.”

  Crispin chuffed a laugh. “Italian syndicate indeed! What nonsense. A mob of Venetian merchants!”

  “Lombardy.”

  “Lombardy, is it?”

  Mahmoud’s smile dimmed. “Perhaps.” He shrugged, a little nervously, Crispin thought. Had he given away too much? “If you don’t believe me, well then. You must certainly kill me.”

  Crispin’s lip curled. He approached Mahmoud with steady steps. His naked hand curled into a fist.

  “Yet I see in your eyes that kernel of doubt,” said Mahmoud quickly. “Do I speak the truth? If she died it would be your fault. And you are the kind of man who possesses the luxury of guilt. Whereas I am not.”

  Crispin did not stop his advance. He grabbed the man’s hair, yanked, and pulled his dagger, close to sliding its sharp edge over his throat. Mahmoud never took his gaze from Crispin’s.

  The blade poised at Mahmoud’s throat a long time. Crispin watched the play of firelight undulate on the knife’s shiny face.

  But as much as he desired to spill the Saracen’s blood, to let it run hot and fast across the floor, he worried Mahmoud might have spoken the truth. He could not let harm come to Philippa. The thought curdled his blood.

  He withdrew his blade and backed away. “You will have no more congress with her.”

  “Perhaps.”

  Crispin decided to play his hand. “Is it the cloth you want?”

  Mahmoud blinked slowly but betrayed nothing, neither recognition of the cloth nor puzzlement.

  “Did you hear me?”

  “Quite well, Lord Crispin. I simply have no reply.”

  Mahmoud’s loosened tongue had fallen silent and there was nothing more Crispin could do. But there was one thing he could make certain of. “Nevertheless, you will have nothing more to do with Philippa Walcote.”

  Mahmoud smiled.

  “There is worse I can do to you than kill.” To emphasize the point, Crispin crouched beside Mahmoud, picked up a cucumber from the floor, and beheaded the tip with the sharp knife.

  Mahmoud’s smile faded.

  “We have an understanding,” said Crispin through his teeth. He tossed the cucumber aside and rose to his full height. Crispin wiped the knife, sheathed it, and strode with deliberate indolence to the exit, slamming the door behind him.

  His only thought was to get to Philippa as quickly as possible, but the rain was rasping harder, making the heavily trodden street a slurry.

  Crispin finally arrived at the Walcote manor and made his way to the kitchen entrance. He felt relief at seeing a friendly face.

  “John Hoode!” he called and the man stopped.

  “Crispin! Tut! Your face will never heal if you keep getting into fights.”

  Crispin touched his swollen cheek. In his confrontation with Mahmoud, he’d forgotten it. He took Hoode aside and spoke in low tones. “Never mind that. I know you are here in the kitchens, but I want you to do your best to keep an eye on your mistress.”

  Hoode’s tone dropped to match Crispin’s. “Whatever for?”

  “Her life may be in danger. Since you are here in this house when I am not, I ask that you be vigilant.”

  “Bless me!” he whispered in an irritatingly high tenor. “I won’t have to fight anyone, will I? I don’t mind saying that I’m not made for that.”

  Crispin eyed his long hands and tapered fingers. “I hope it will not come to that. Just make certain to send a message to me if any foreigners come to call.”

  “What sort of foreigners?”

  “Saracens. Or Italians. Both are dangerous.”

  “Can you tell me what this is about? I’ll feel a bit of a fool jumping at the merest shadow, thinking the worst.”

  He eyed Hoode and forced his lips into a tight line. “Perhaps it is best not to speak of it. Only inform me if these strangers intrude.”

  “I don’t know how I’m to do that, unless you let your man stay.”

  “Is Jack here now?”

  “Oh aye. I thought you knew.”

  “Where?”

  Hoode led Crispin into a storeroom. Jack sat on a firkin, his face bulging with food and a half-eaten pasty in his hand.

  “Master!” he sputtered. Food dribbled down his shirt when he shot to his feet. He swallowed hastily and wiped his mouth with his hand. He looked down at the pasty and stuffed it in his scrip. “I thought I’d find you here anon. I’ve been looking for you. I’ve got something from the sheriff.”

  Crispin watched Jack wipe his hands down his tunic. It did not bode well that the sheriff was sending him written messages.

  With relatively clean hands, Jack pulled the missive free from his belt and handed the folded paper to Crispin. Crispin raised a brow at the wax seal and turned the parcel in his hands. The thick parchment was rough under his fingers and it made a soft crackling sound as he turned it again.

  He bent the parchment at the seal and snapped it, pushing the rest open with a fingernail and cursing when some of the wax embedded under the nail. Carefully, he unfolded the missive and flattened it against his thigh. He lifted it to the light and read.

  “He sealed it and everything,” said Jack excitedly. “What’s it mean?”

  Crispin lowered the parchment again, the formal words on the missive running through his mind. “It is a summons, a formal command to attend him.”

  Jack scratched his chin. “He’s called you before with messengers. Why so proper this time?”

  “Indeed. That’s what worries me.” The note was plain enough; the language uninspired and vague. He folded it again and put it in his purse. “Did you give your message to Mistress Walcote?”

  “Aye. But she pretended she didn’t know what I was talking about.”

  “Damn the woman!” His hand slapped the scabbard, trying to find comfort in the hard solidity of the weapon. He had no time for her now. “I must answer this summons. Stay here. Tell Mistress Walcote that you will escort her to the Boar’s Tusk in an hour’s time. Do not take ‘no’ for an answer. Hoode here will explain. He’ll send you to me if it is necessary.”

  10

  When Crispin reached Wynchecombe’s hall he stood in the doorway a long time before the sheriff acknowledged him. With a curt nod, Wynchecombe motioned for Crispin to enter and he walked cautiously forward under the arch. Piled with writs, Wynchecombe’s table stood beside the roaring hearth. Crispin stood as close as he could to the fire, though it was hard to feel real warmth in such a place.

  The sheriff took a swig of his wine without looking up and signed a document before reaching for another. He read it, his head tracking from side to side.

  Crispin had known Simon Wynchec
ombe long enough to realize he was being played with. The man delayed the inevitable—whatever that was and for whatever reason. Was it the seriousness of the summons that gave Wynchecombe pause? The thought certainly pitched the butterflies in Crispin’s stomach into a blizzard.

  The fire cast a bright and deceptively comforting glow into the room, and a fat candle on his desk did its best to illumine the papers. The oiled animal skin stretched taut in the window frame allowed the sunlight, such as it was, to filter through its golden aura. A rushlight torch in a sconce brightened a corner, but this, too, could only do so much for the gloom that frowned across the tower room. Crispin wasn’t certain whether Wynchecombe preferred it dark or didn’t know any better.

  The sheriff poised his quill over the document and lingered. The tip dripped a blob of black ink onto the page but it didn’t distract the sheriff. Finally, he tossed the paper aside unsigned with an exhaled, “Bah!”

  Raising his head at last, he glared at Crispin through his black brows. His mouth turned down in a gargoyle’s exaggerated grimace when he looked him over. “By the mass! What happened to you?”

  Crispin did not touch his face this time. The dull throb of leftover bruises reminded him enough of what his face looked like. His neck still felt the marks of the henchman’s fingers. “Some of it is your work and some the work of others.”

  “You continue to be popular,” the sheriff said with a smirk.

  “As always, my Lord Sheriff.” Crispin thought it mete to add a bow, but it appeared more patronizing than appeasing. “Prior to this you sent messengers and ‘escorts.’” He pulled the missive from his scrip and held it up before letting it glide to the table. “Why this time a summons?”

  “A summons is official. It is a record that you were called to this place at this time.” Wynchecombe picked up the document and called for his clerk in the outer room. The burly man entered, took the parchment from Wynchecombe’s hand, and left the room, raising his head only once to glare at Crispin. “Sometimes,” said the sheriff, “it’s important to have a record.”